


In the hurly-burly (I stop somewhere waiting for you)

by aterribledecision



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: A Midsummer Night's Dream by Shakespeare, F/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Witchcraft, Witches, Woo!, a journey of catharsis with a redhead and a curly-haired good boi, dont you think if Anne had a cat shed name him Constantine, gilbert's emotional problems smacked me in the face while writing this, i dont know anything about canada witchcraft plants or nursing but i did minimal research so, literally i just googled witch plants, off topic but what are the odds walt whitman was a green witch?, okay im rambling ill stop, thats in here also almost forgot, theres minor swearing and one mildly provocative suggestion dont worry, witches and whitman work well together what can i say, yes the titles from both Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman and Macbeth by Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24836281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aterribledecision/pseuds/aterribledecision
Summary: "When the hurly-burly's done/When the battle's lost and won." Macbeth. Act 1, Scene 1. 3-4."Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged. Missing me one place, search another. I stop somewhere waiting for you." Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself," Leaves of Grass.Gilbert finds himself in a witch's shop with a mountain on his back. Anne runs a shop as a green witch, with aches and hungry memories eating her alive, clawing at her all the time. Gilbert isn't Puck, but he's also not himself. Anne's fiery with righteousness, but is trying to calm down and learn how to swim.(In case you wanted a short story that I might not finish with two wounded but wholesome characters, a ridiculous meet cute, the adorable Lacroix family, and gratuitous mentioning of "herb bundles.")
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe & Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe & Delphine Lacroix, Gilbert Blythe & Delphine Lacroix & Sebastian "Bash" Lacroix, Gilbert Blythe & Sebastian "Bash" Lacroix, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley, Mary Lacroix & Sebastian "Bash" Lacroix, Mary Lacroix/Sebastian ''Bash'' Lacroix
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. "Oh, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd!... And though she be but little, she is fierce."

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy. this is my first work for Anne With an "E" but I've done other fics. i really don't know anything about witchcraft, Canada, nursing, or plants (a sentence I never thought I'd have to write) so please don't be mad if something's inaccurate. this is for fun, as fanfic always is. i love love LOVE these characters and their adorable relationship, so join me as i write Anne as a witch and Gilbert as a good boi/man/nurse trying to find out where he is in life and what he wants.  
> fair warning, i have a bad habit of starting fics and not finishing them, so if that happens with this one (fingers crossed it doesn't. i usually write one shots but oh well) i'm immensely sorry.  
> also, don't read this out loud. my run-on sentences will steal your breath.  
> anyway, enjoy!!!

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert was often likened to fire. 

The late afternoon light softened the interior of her little shop, golden, melting rays caressing the hard corners of shelves and returning all the colors of the various plants and objects. The datura, belladonna, henbane, and mandrake spilled their green leaves and wistful shades over their pots. The blinding rays served to dress the flowers in shimmering robes and fuel the plants’ lives. Anne’s own energy steadily climbed as the sunlight trickled over her skin and danced on the ends of her hair.

At first, it was her appearance. Flaming, orange-red, straight hair always caught people’s eyes. Her startling, wide blue eyes, somewhat protruding and drooping at the outside corners caused more glances. Prideful posture, no matter the circumstance (ordering a coffee or screaming her opinion), made others adjust themselves accordingly and strain to match the jutting chin. And, of course, the smatterings of freckles, grouped together closely like the sky’s fascinating constellations around her nose, across her forehead, the sides of her cheeks, about her lips, and creeping towards her ears. Some blended into her natural pale wash while others stood out dark and constant. Looking closer, even her lips, a smear of pinkish-red, resembled the nasty burn one could get from a close brush with an open flame. 

Constantine, Anne’s snow-white cat with luminescent yellow eyes and ever-pricked ears, observed his mistress’s actions as she swung about her shop. He remarked on her personality in his simple brain as a swath of deep blue fabric from her long skirt skated over his paw. 

Tempestuous was a good word but passionate was a much more accurate one. Whatever happened to her, fortunate or not, impacted her heart like an atom bomb. When she loved, she loved so overwhelmingly and wholly that the receiver of such devotion often had to bring her back down to earth from her glowing praises and high opinions. A happy day brought an earth-shattering, dimpled smile to her soft, reddened cheeks, and her voice cracked and squeaked with excitement from morning till night. This was the warm, homey hearth side of her; the candle inside that guided others and sparked inspiration in others’ souls. 

On the contrary, her anger was quick and devastating. T-e-m-p-e-r was the word Anne was made to spell over and over as punishment in fourth grade by her teacher who had suffered another of her famous, blistering outbursts (a boy seated to her right had leaned over and broke Anne’s favorite pencil, then laughed at her tears. She took every pencil and crayon on his desk, broke them all, then tore most pages out of his spelling book for good measure while stomping her feet and wailing). Her temper had hardly improved now that she was many years older (some might say it got even worse). Her words could be biting like a heated knife, or trembling, quick with fury like water boiling over. Her pale skin would darken to fuchsia and her normally passionate blue eyes would explode, azure flames with a temperature that worked up from Venus to the holy Sun itself. This was the uncontrollable, forest fire side of her; the raging house fire or heaven’s lightning that struck unexpectedly. 

Despite this remarkable similarity to fire, Anne’s status as a witch leaned more towards that of the green witch. 

She had always felt a deep connection to nature: all aspects of it, such as the plants, trees, animals, insects, sky, and sun. She was a little more hesitant when it came to the water, but that was more of a childhood fear founded in her lack of swimming lessons than a true aversion to the element. And, although she had felt the sting of other people’s cruel words and knew well the selfish, evil side of human nature, she felt strongly connected to human beings too.

That was what she excelled in, nature and the energy within the earth. 

Water not so much. 

For now. 

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert was known to never give up on things, no matter how tough or hopeless. 

Her quaint shop, dressed in the prettiest lilac color both outside and inside and sitting on the corner of one of the busiest streets in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, Canada, was a haven of good energy and the area’s only witchcraft shop. It goes by the poetic name _The Lilac, Star, and Bird_ , traced elegantly with gold lettering onto the wide window display at the front with smaller font below proclaiming _“Anne’s Herbal Healing & More.”_

She started her business nearly five years ago, despite major protests from her foster mother who didn’t believe there was any magic or “good energy” in the world and believed even less in the ability to make a living promoting the craft. Marilla was as no-nonsense as one could get, but through all her sharp reprimands and sometimes demeaning words she couldn’t begrudge Anne the one connection (aside from her flaming-hued hair) she had with her biological mother. Indeed, Anne had learned her senior year of high school when she went on a journey of self-discovery back to the grim orphanage she had spent the majority of her childhood in that her mother had been a witch too. The matron had inherited a book that Anne’s mother had apparently cherished but withheld it from Anne because of its ridiculous mention of spells and rituals, depictions of fantastical plants- some even poisonous- with notes on both their medicinal and magical properties littered throughout. Anne herself had already been interested in witchcraft after reading certain sources on the internet, but after discovering the book and her mother’s own affinity, she leapt into the practice wholeheartedly. She eventually worked out the details of her specialized form of green witchcraft, as witches are wont to do, and built her shop with the goal of spreading her craft and providing aid through magical and natural means. 

Anne wouldn’t lie and say she hadn’t experienced poor conditions- having to cut down some of her supply to save money and pinching pennies to make sure she had enough to feed herself all while dumping a little of the profit into paying back the loan she had gotten to get the shop. However, there were a good amount of people who wandered in while walking through some of the tourist spots in town, especially during the nice seasons, and ended up buying a stone to help focus one’s energy, or one of the books she keeps stocked that explains how the earth’s natural energy works in people’s lives. 

Now, she wasn’t a fool or delusional as some might say (even a select few of her friends that still shook their heads, perplexed when she went into the detail of some spells, potions, rituals etc.). She knew the world was not kind to pagans and practitioners of witchcraft. At best, she was not taken seriously and at worst, actively discriminated against. This wasn’t just a hobby she delved into at home, after all. Witchcraft was her livelihood. 

Most people scoffed when she explained her occupation. (She always ended up debating hotly with the ignorant person, no matter how hard she tried to remain levelheaded and unbothered. This was what she was passionate about, _dammit_ , and she never commented on the other frivolities of modern life that seemed unnecessary like social media and those “influencers” or whatever they’re called). Besides, her craft actually helped people. She had a few regulars who never failed to pick up their specific blend of herbs, whether in potion form, tincture form, or some other kind, and who always reported the miraculous success of her magical mixtures.  


She helped heal body aches, reduced the frequency of headaches, soothed the nerves of any anxious soul- be it child, stressed mother, overworked father, or tightly wound aunt, and focused people’s attention in this frenzied, not-a-single-second-where-I-can’t-be-entertained world.

Her natural green thumb and tendency to dramatics made her excellent as a green witch, if she did say so herself, and _The Lilac, Star, and Bird_ was one of her best accomplishments. 

She was at a good place in her life, content that her work wasn’t really work and that she learned new things about her craft everyday. 

There were times, of course, when not even her faith in nature or any of her spells and rituals were able to soothe her aches. These aches weren’t physical, though, and she was wise enough to know the problem didn’t lie in the right concoction of herbs, but in some emotional trouble that was deeply internalized. Having grown up bouncing from foster home to foster home, some certainly worse than the rest, all the while knowing she would always be returned to that same orphanage- the orphanage where the other girls hated her, made fun of her hair, called her witch in the meanest way and devil because of her interests, she was tougher than most but completely guarded when it came to her emotions. She never learned to accept love for what it was and, even after staying for years in Matthew and Marilla’s wonderful, healing care and gaining bosom friends that stuck by her, she was still waiting for the other shoe to drop and for her loved ones to abandon her. Marilla had brought her to a therapist a couple of times, but ultimately Anne realized there was nothing that could cure this type of ache- the ache for lost innocence, the ache of seeing some of humanity’s worst sins from a way too young age. The ache of memories that attacked her out of nowhere, that painted themselves on the back of her eyelids and that caked her mouth with a taste of bitterness and dried tears. 

She was happy and relatively successful. She couldn’t complain about anything right now in her life. But there was no cure for this…. Sometimes, the good days were ruined and she had to claw her way out of her own head, out of her worst moments replaying in a hellish cycle. Sometimes the bad days completely took over, claiming any semblance of functionality and potential happiness for her and shredding it to pieces with a vicious, greedy mouth. This was reality and, despite all her witchy remedies and blessings and rituals, there was no cure. She was sure there was no cure. 

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert did _not_ give up, but she didn’t think of this as giving up. She was just...stuck. She could fight, and scream, and care for her healing plants all she wanted, but for right now, in this problem (these aches), she was stuck. There was (probably) no cure and instead of wasting precious energy seeking and seeking one, she could help heal other people’s aches for which there was _certainly_ a cure. 

And she could maintain her cherished shop. 

Her shop was thriving. The lambent sun rays were warm and gooey, highlighting the pale purple walls and the flecks of gold in some of the turquoise, blood red, glimmering midnight, and cloudy blue stones she sold. Constantine nearly cracked his jaw with how wide he yawned and his stark white fur blended with the failing light as well, his lithe figure of shadow thrown against the dark floorboards as he stretched. Anne shook her head at his laziness but knew she couldn’t change the nature of a feline. Some of the plants, she noticed, like a portion of the delicate white magnolias, were shrinking in a little, done for the day and ready to retreat before Nyx claimed the sky. She actually didn’t close until sometime after 4 am (the witching hour was, in all seriousness, a great time for business), so she left the plants to soak in the last grains of burning energy from the sun. 

She moved to change the water in the shallow, solid oak bowl she kept beside the register at all times, right next to a similar bowl of the red-tinged PEI soil, one of dead bark from her favorite tree that had grown outside her childhood bedroom (dubbed the Snow Queen and forever cherished in Anne’s yet youthful heart), and another bowl full of plant seeds, various ones mixed together of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Having some of the wonderful wonders of nature- water, soil, bark, and seeds- near her as she worked in the shop always helped her focus and stabilize her sometimes erratic and unhealthy energy. All she had to do when things got overwhelming was sift her hands through the seeds, feeling the life force and potential of each, appreciating their singular and collective beauty or dip her hand ever so slightly into the brisk salt water, flushing all the frustrating thoughts and built up worries out of her mind and her bones. They also helped generate innovative ideas for new spells and mixtures. 

Anne brought the bowls over to a counter she had on the left side of the shop, pressed against the wall with many baskets of herb bundles and shelves of books on witchcraft crammed under it. Customers didn’t usually come around at this time, not until it became truly late at night and they wanted to try their superstitions out at a witch’s shop, so she didn’t feel the need to keep the samples of nature near the register. 

Anne was about to abandon them in favor of some other tedious work when Constantine let out a quivering purr that built up to a sharp yowl. At the same time, Anne’s hands didn’t obey her when she went to turn away from the counter and had kept themselves stationed near the bowls.

Peering down at the contents of each bowl, Anne let slip a curious sound, feeling some force tug her attention to the bark and the rich red soil. She used one hand to brush gently the flaky, brown skin from the Snow Queen and the other to push around the clumped together, dark red layer of the earth. 

Oh yes. Nature was trying to tell her something. She focused in on the two samples, imagining their purpose, their beauty, and the cycle through which they contributed to the earth....

A strange buzzing, almost… not rumbling, but a tumbling, overlapping sensation began in her stomach. Like a powerful energy flip-flopping; it was the sensation one gets from riding a roller coaster, feeling elation as their friend seated next to them laughed and screamed along, but incredibly heightened and _grounded_ in a weird way. Constantine’s ear-shatteringly loud racket was ringing in her ears, but distorted to sound like a far away spirit’s warning. A tingle raced up her spine, jumping from vertebrae to vertebrae until Anne felt she had an extra set of eyes deep in the back of her head. She felt her perspective shift so that she saw _all_ of the shop- Constantine’s pricked ears, the slow, gradual wilting of the magnolias, even the spider that lazily spun a web high up in the right hand corner of the shop’s ceiling. 

Anne exhaled shakily, unsure of what this new feeling meant and cautious about what might happen if she tried to pull her hands away and end it. 

The feeling kept building, the most peculiar energy she’s ever felt growing and growing too fast for her to understand. Just- the bark, the soil. The bark, the soil, thebark, thesoil, thebark, thesoil, _thebarkthesoil thebarkthesoil thebarkthesoilthebarkthesoilthebark-_

They were trying to tell her something, something important, something powerful was inching up on her- 

The shop’s bell chimed and a toasty breeze swept over Anne’s arms as someone opened the door.


	2. "Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, such shaping fantasies, that apprehend..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the scene where Anne hits Gilbert is classic, so...inevitably it ends up in here. poor gilbert's struggling. seriously, his emotional issues blindsided me while i was writing this. it was inspiration that struck at like 5 am and i couldn't stop writing these scenes. then i had to write anne's...because at first she was just a witch with a shop. but yeah. also bash is just one of those really fun characters to write and i love his and gilbert's brotherly relationship.  
> anyway, enjoy!!!

Years ago, in a high school play he was forced into, Gilbert Blythe played Puck from _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. 

His English teacher had practically begged him to give the role a shot, primarily based off of his appearance. Gilbert had a lean figure, leaner in his teenage years like a male sprite, with a head of dark curls that most girls called charming and cute or whatnot, and matched them with perfectly creased, hazel-greenish eyes framed by feminine eyelashes to boot. More than that, his warm, wholesome but engaging and mischievous charm came through in his silent smiles, pink lips that quirked in amusement and complemented a strong jaw and chin. 

Also freckles. Gilbert’s freckles weren’t prominent, especially not against his tan skin that he earned through outdoor farm work since he was young, but they did show occasionally, up and down both cheeks, some even bold enough to travel to his nose or creep up to his forehead. 

His dad smiled and glowed with a certain pride and happiness in this particular memory as he grabbed the tire swing to slow it down. Gilbert was sitting in the middle, sticky with sweat from the summer heat but anxiously waiting for his dad’s words. His father was long gone, and, painfully, memories of him were almost always tinged with this golden hue, like Gilbert was in paradise when he still had his father. Like he might be happier if he was wherever his dad was. The thick, coarse rope holding the tire twisted under his dad’s firm grip and Gilbert giggled, not daring to look away from his dad as the adrenaline and dopamine of the swing curled in his stomach and tickled his brain. He remembers kicking his feet (blue Nike sneakers with neon green trim and neon green for the laces, but the laces had been so dirtied from constant use they were a dull greenish-brown with hints of brightness peeking through) impatiently. 

“Yeah, buddy. Freckles automatically make your face more interesting than everybody else’s.” His dad winked, then Gilbert lost sight of him as his dad grappled the tire and pulled it back and up, up so Gilbert could just see his dad’s hand and the tilting grass beneath him. His stomach swooped, anticipating the swing, and he tensed. Before he let go, his dad raised his voice with a playful, “Not everybody’s got freckles!” 

Then he let go, the speed and angle making Gilbert shriek and bubble with laughter, and as he reached the peak of the swing, suspended for the briefest of seconds before he would plummet back down, he imagined the sun peppering kisses on his cheeks in the spots where his freckles are. Something tugs and he’s sailing back, away from the sun, and to his dad, but he passes his dad, too. And swings, swings, then slows down and his dad jolts him to a stop. 

Gilbert had found throughout his school years that girls had a hard time meeting his eyes and when he asked one of his best guy friends about it, he had been waved away with a dismissive hand and a “‘cause you’re sincere, Gilbert. And good-looking. Girls like respectful, nice but, I dunno man, playful guys. You’ve got all that. Thanks for that, by the way. Compared to you, I’m-” Some filthy words may have followed, mostly in jest but Gilbert knew genuine bitterness when he saw it so he didn’t ask about the topic anymore. The response had caused a self-aware, warm blush to spread over his ears and neck and he had had a hard time looking at girls the rest of the day because of it. 

So, his English teacher, who was working with the drama teacher to put on _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , approached him as soon as the play was greenlighted and listed the various reasons (stated above) he would make the perfect Puck. 

His brother, Bash, had found it hilarious since he had to wear these stupid plastic pointy ears and actually, y’know, _act_ in front of _people_ on _stage_ in _Shakespearean_ language. Long story short, he had been teased mercilessly by his brother for years after the event and had learned a few interesting and probably important things from the experience. 

He had learned that it was easy to fake confidence, especially as an actor because they fake everything. He had learned that those who start off stories, whether they are important or not important to the actual story, are not the same when the story ends. And he learned that love, the pure feeling of love whether platonic, romantic, or otherwise and all of its consequential intricacies, was a mystery to all humanity and it would never be absolutely correctly defined, demonstrated, or expressed by anyone in the past, present, or future. 

That was a little wordy and it might sound cynical, but it’s not. It’s… real. 

Gilbert had brought this point up to Bash in the pizza joint they were celebrating in after his last night performing as Puck in the play and Bash had laughed uproariously at first, peals of delight petering out to a round of redundant chuckles, then he shook his head, wrapping a hand around his damp glass of Coke. 

“Jeez, Blythe. How d’ya think of these things? You think too much, eh, and one day you’re gonna kiss somebody and all those thoughts knockin’ around your noggin are gonna go- _phewww!_ ” He let out a quick rush of air, like something shooting off, and mimicked watching Gilbert’s thoughts fly away with a hand to block out the imaginary sun, squinting. He laughed again and Gilbert just rolled his eyes. 

Maybe so. Maybe Gilbert did have a problem with his thoughts- the amount of them, the overwhelming urge he had to know things and seek information out. 

And Gilbert’s not Puck, at least not anymore. One of those things he learned from playing Puck in _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ is that those who start off the story, who begin the road for all the others, no matter who or what that character is, always change by the end of the story. Gilbert was Puck, but he didn’t change. He was stuck. Puck was stuck. Maybe some might say, “Well, that means the story isn’t over, yet.” Maybe so. Maybe these are just his thoughts and he needs to get on with his numb life. 

Gilbert wasn’t Puck anymore, but he still thinks about what he learned from playing him in the play. And, when his niece and Bash’s daughter, Delphine, looks at him with her big, pleading chocolate eyes or when Bash does something particularly silly or stupid, Gilbert will puff his chest out, splay one hand out in a flamboyant manner, then proclaim in a deep, arrogant tone, “Lord, what _fools_ these mortals be!” 

This never fails to make Delphine burst out into uncontrollable giggles, even if she doesn’t completely understand what the phrase means, and her laugh is encouraged by Bash, who will sometimes grab the longest object in the immediate area and brandish it, yelling in challenge, “Me, the fool? I shall smite you where you stand! You are the only fool around here!” Then Gilbert and Bash will engage in a hilariously exaggerated, entirely too dramatic “sword fight,” wherein they take turns getting slashed and stabbing their opponent until one succumbs to the other’s sword buried deep in their stomach and falls, groaning, to the floor. Delphine will watch enraptured, eyes widening with great laughs tumbling out, as the loser falls dead with their tongue lolling out and the victor stands over the loser’s body, one foot on his chest and raising his weapon triumphantly.

Gilbert didn’t know exactly why memories of playing Puck popped up more frequently than they should. That happened a lot, actually, and the problem had recently gotten worse, if Bash’s worried stares and reminders that Gilbert should take shorter shifts were anything to go by. 

Gilbert thinks the problem is this. This big, big mountain is growing behind him, immovable rock but it’s not faceless stone. It’s very much got faces, faces from his memories, from a time Gilbert doesn’t necessarily want to go back to, but the only time he _understands_. And he’s still swinging, but he’s feeling none of the joy. He’s near the sun, then he’s away, he’s almost in his dad’s arms, then he’s gone. Where’s he at right now? He doesn’t understand. Nothing is making much sense, but the mountain’s getting bigger and bigger and maybe it’s creeping onto his shoulders because he feels so _weighted_. And surely, surely people can tell by looking at him. They can tell he’s not right. 

His appearance, his “sincerity,” means nothing when he feels so…stuck. He’s got a good job, he works hard and believes in what he’s doing, has a brilliant, loving family, but he’s not moving forward and he’s not moving backwards (he thinks) and he’s feeling none of the joy. 

He’s not right. He doesn’t sleep at night for long and when he does, he dreams of his dad six feet below, dreams of a boy abandoned on a ship which is in the middle of nowhere ocean. There’s blue sea all around and a boy with dark hair is alone, and no one’s going to help him. He’s not right because he wakes up and there’s Bash, and Mary, and Delphine, people who he loves, _loves_ , and people who love him back but he feels a little bit numb. He doesn’t know where he is. 

Where’s he at right now? 

What needs to give? 

All he could do, all he had been doing, was make logical adjustments so these moments of weakness, of dreams and memories that pasted themselves to the inside of his brain and confused him, that made him zone out for days on end, were hidden. He tries to make them less frequent, but he hadn’t been succeeding, evidently.

Gilbert thinks the only thing worse than suffering by himself and not seeing a way to end it was making his family worry about him and possibly dragging them down too.

Gilbert had already forsaken his 12-hour shift schedule in order to get more sleep during the week and because Bash’s mother was visiting from Trinidad and he didn’t want four days completely free where she could drag him places and scold him for his unhealthy diet and unhealthy sleep schedule. He loved the woman, but she had firm opinions and tended to see him as a child when he was, in reality, 25 and took care of himself to the best of his abilities (Bash and Mary helped some).

He had zoned out again, it seemed, as Bash stood before him in their kitchen with the mint green wallpaper. The late afternoon light from the windows in the living room just brushed the edge of the kitchen, revealing the shoes Gilbert still had on from work and the smears of blue, red, and yellow hand paint on Bash’s sleeve from Delly’s art project. The walls were way too bright, a running joke in the family. Bash had picked the color without consulting Mary and the white cabinets and mint green ensured that a vibrant glow was thrown on anyone who occupied the kitchen. 

Bash had an eyebrow raised at Gilbert’s vacant stare and a smirk started creeping up on one side of his mouth. 

“Wait, what? I didn’t get that.” Gilbert made sure his voice was serious and his face was straight, not allowing any hint of how caught off guard he was to slip through. 

“What you daydreamin’ about, Blythe? You’re always off and thinkin’ about other things than listening to me. I’m important, y’know. I’m the most important thing in your life.” 

Gilbert rolled his eyes as Bash gestured emphatically to himself. “I’m glad you think so. You’re the only one who does.” 

Bash _hmmed_. “My Mary would beg to differ.” 

“ _Your Mary_ would tell you to shut up and get to the point.” 

Bash huffed. “Jeez. You shoulda been listening in the first place…” 

Gilbert raised his own eyebrows in response. 

“Yeah, fine, fine. It’s about my mom, Blythe. You know she’s coming to stay for a bit and the deadline’s tomorrow-” 

“The deadline for what?” 

“For gettin' everything ready. We fixed up some things- y’know the fence, that wobbly dresser, but there’s something else that I kinda forgot about until now.” Bash ran a hand through his short, curly black hair, worry pinching his brow in a way Gilbert had only seen a few times before. 

“Well, what is it?” Gilbert was bemused by the cryptic nature of this last “preparation.” 

Bash looked hesitant, but took a deep breath and met Gilbert’s gaze with his rich brown eyes. “My mom’s a big believer in magic, Blythe. By that I mean… well, she’s always warned me about the soucouyant and jumbees and… What I mean is that I forgot to protect the house, our house, from all that stuff and if she gets here and finds out I’ve done nothing to try to protect us...” 

Bash trailed off, waiting for Gilbert to catch up to what he said and what he was implying from it. 

“Y-Your mom is _that_ superstitious?” 

He gave a quick nod. “You betcha, Blythe. She’s always had these silly things we had to do growing up, like leaving a pair of shoes outside the door, pouring rice around the outside the house, or making sure she don’t sweep over my feet. Not just Trinidadian practice, either, Blythe- she was scared of everything. Had these herb things hung over our beds for protection and good dreams. I remember she burned a small bit of sage every morning to “purify” the house. I always thought it was just a bunch of plants and spooky words, but she’s crazy about it. She made me promise that I’d protect my house and do all that stuff when I was livin’ on my own, but-” 

“But you don’t believe in it, so…” 

“So I didn’t.” Bash shrugged helplessly, then grabbed Gilbert by the shoulders. Some of the light from the window fell on his face, lending an aura of drama as only one side was illuminated while the other was in shadow. “Blythe, we can’t have her over if the house ain't protected like she wants. For one thing, she won’t even come in the house if we don’t have one of those herb bundles hangin' over the door. If nothing’s hangin' over Delly’s bed either, or yours…She’ll kill me, Blythe. Kill me.”

“Alright, alright... Stop being so dramatic.” 

Bash scrunched his nose. “It’s cute that you think I’m jokin' about her killing me.” 

This conversation led to him taking the car and driving out to Charlottetown. There was only one witch’s shop in Charlottetown and probably the whole of PEI, so Gilbert’s options, coupled with the fact this was so last minute, were limited. He found himself outside a quite pretty and charming little shop, painted lilac on the outside with herb bundles dangling above the door and stones with strange symbols lining the display window. _The Lilac, Star, and Bird: Anne’s Herbal Healing and More_ was its name, which immediately made Gilbert raise his eyebrows because he knew his Whitman. Gilbert’s dad had loved Whitman’s work and had Gilbert read him _Leaves of Grass_ (his dad’s absolute favorite was “Song of the Open Road”) when he was confined to bed and didn’t have the energy to read it himself. Whoever she was, this “Anne” seemed to have good taste in literature. 

About the whole “magic” and “witches” shtick, Gilbert was not convinced this woman was an actual witch. He had always been a practical, pragmatic guy and didn’t believe in superstitions, or any special kind of force in the world that worked outside of his perception. But he couldn’t deny that certain plants had medicinal effects (this was what they used in the Middle Ages after all and it worked, to some degree) and using them correctly could definitely help people. Essentially, he assumed, what he did as a nurse and the “herbal healing” that Anne did weren’t too different from each other. 

He pushed open the door, subconsciously registering the tinkling of the bell above it, and cast his eyes about the interior. Rows and rows of herbs and plants caught his gaze, all different colors and lengths and crowded together in dark but mismatching pots. Some hung from the ceiling, their emerald leaves trailing to the floor, reaching out towards their kin. There were yellow and white flowers that stood out like intricate seashells on a beach, some blue ones of various shades, including sky and cobalt, and shoots of lavender peeking out of the corner of one row. The flowers emanated sweet scents, earthy and fresh, but they were overpowered by the smell of burning sage and rosemary. Gilbert noted that the walls were the same color as the outside just as a slight movement caught his eye. He peered down at the floor to see a white cat stretched out in front of a huge, overflowing pot. The cat’s glowing yellow eyes peered at him cautiously and he felt their insistent presence even after Gilbert tore his own gaze away. 

He juggled his car keys in his hand for a second, listening to the jangle of metal before jamming them into his jacket pocket. He blew out a breath, still peering around the shop when another figure caught his eye. 

A woman with bright red hair in twin braids (which was Gilbert’s favorite hair color. He had always had a thing for redheads, a fact which Bash used for ammunition many times) stood with her back to Gilbert, facing a counter against the left wall of the shop. She wore a long blue skirt with white lace detailing around her waist, which extended to her top. Gilbert couldn’t help but note the attractiveness of her red braids against the white lace of her top, something almost fairy-like about the image (Gilbert had always imagined Titania, Queen of the Fairies from _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , with red hair, but that was beside the point). 

He opened his mouth to get her attention when she whipped around, allowing Gilbert a glimpse of wide, blue eyes. 

He gulped down his planned greeting, too caught up in her appearance. As if charming, fiery red hair wasn’t enough, her blue eyes were wide like the sky, burning with a passion to match the flame of her hair. The woman (Anne, he was assuming) was pale, skin milky like a pearl, with freckles dotting everywhere on her face. (Freckles! Freckles were his weakness as well! Christ, Bash was going to have a field day when he told him about this). 

All in all, the woman’s beauty caused the breath in Gilbert’s lungs to shorten immensely and he was left trying to remember why he was there and how to speak words again. 

“W-Welcome.” She seemed to collect herself, the shock spread across her face retreating to a more polite, guarded expression. “What can I help you with this evening?” 

Gilbert also noted the pleasant chime of her voice, although she sounded a little breathless, likening it to the sound of a babbling brook set deep in the forest. Her eyes were expectant, staring at him directly and, for some reason, this sent a bolt of electricity sizzling through his veins, a giddy feeling trembling in his stomach. Gilbert ignored it (firmly ignored that this seemed to burn through the numbness he had been suffering from as of late and how much more alert, lively he suddenly felt) and cleared his throat before speaking. 

“Uh… Um- uh…” _Jesus. Use your words, Gilbert._ A hot blush worked its way into his ears and the back of his neck. “I need things for protection? Like, herbs, maybe some herb bundles, that I can hang around the house for defense against evil things and stuff to “cleanse” the...uh, the house.” 

Anne listened intently, but Gilbert could see her attention wasn’t entirely focused on him. Her hands were behind her back, fiddling with something on the counter presumably. 

“Something for protection? For your house?” The redhead’s thin brows, orange just like her hair, furrowed for a second, a storm cloud seemingly passing over her delicate features, before they untwisted and her face cleared up in understanding. “Ah, yes. Yes, yeah… I have lots of different things to provide protection. Those herb bundles you mentioned…” 

Gilbert watched Anne move from her spot all while rapidly explaining information about certain herbs that provided defense against evil spirits, that cleansed spaces, that improved memory and concentration. Gilbert nodded along, trying not to make it seem obvious he was admiring her familiarity and comfort within the shop, the gentle way she plucked plants and herbs out, or the gleaming passion drowning her blue, blue eyes. Fading light, the last dregs of rays the sun was trying to squeeze out, caught the ends of her hair and set them alight. A few times she asked Gilbert a question, wanting to be as specific as possible so that Gilbert would get the best results, and he had to tear his eyes away from her small, elegant but calloused and dirtied hands or her pink mouth that occasionally revealed dimples hidden in her cheeks. She was something to behold, alright. Gilbert didn’t want to go back on his own statements, but he took back what he said about real life witches. If anyone was a witch, it was this fascinating redhead before him. 

Before Gilbert realized it, they were at the register. Anne was carefully packaging the seven or so herb bundles she had picked out along with small slips of paper that reiterated instructions she had already told Gilbert on how to use the herbs. She added a few stones that had symbols of protection carved into them and ones that warded off specific evil spirits. 

Gilbert had a moment of panic when he realized their interaction would stop after she was done ringing him up and he would have no good reason for coming back to the shop. He had mentioned to her earlier that he didn’t actually believe in witchcraft and was shopping for his brother. Her mouth had tightened and Gilbert was afraid he had offended her, but she merely shrugged one white-laced shoulder, displacing some strands of copper hair that had loosened from one of her braids and mentioned, “You’re not the first skeptic to walk in here. I hope you come to believe soon, Gilbert Blythe.” That was it, just two sentences, but Gilbert felt a shiver crawl down his spine and an unexpected excitement bubble in his brain; a smile had crossed his lips without him knowing. One of her ivory hands had caressed the wilting leaves of a plant as they passed (Gilbert swore that the green leaf perked up a little when she touched it, but surely he was just imagining it) and he bit his lip and looked away, not wanting to think about or imagine those pretty hands elsewhere. 

Stupidly, he spoke while feeling small spikes of anxiety rush through him. “How much business do you usually get? As fascinating as this all is, surely people don’t come in and buy herb bundles and magic plants all the time.” 

_Was that mean? No,_ he thought _, that was a perfectly reasonable question._ He watched as Anne’s blue eyes flashed to him (he wasn’t imagining the spark of anger in them) and her tapping at the register keys got harder. 

She swallowed, seemingly composing herself for the second time in Gilbert’s presence. 

_She must get carried away a lot._ Gilbert felt his admiration for her grow. He had always admired people who weren’t afraid to show their emotions, who could be vulnerable without the constant fear of others’ judgments. He thought of the interest and love bursting from her eyes as she had explained the properties of the plants and a little bit of why she became a green witch earlier. _Anne is a passionate individual, alright._

“My business isn’t booming if that’s what you’re asking, Gilbert Blythe.” She kept referring to him with both his first name and surname even though he had said she could call him Gilbert. He kind of liked it. She put a lot of emphasis on names. He knew because she told him, “Please make sure you say my name with the ‘e’ at the end. It really elevates it, I think. It’s much more elegant than just plain ‘Ann.’” So it felt special that she pronounced both of his when addressing him (or she just detested him because of his disbelief in witchcraft and perhaps the general creepy vibes he was sure he was giving off by staring at her the whole time and she didn’t feel comfortable being familiar with him). “But I get by. And there are more people than you think that come to me to cure their physical pain, sometimes their mental stress, or who just want to learn more about the energy in nature and how it can be harnessed for good.” 

He had finally pushed her too far, it seemed, because she wasn’t looking at him at all while she said this. She focused all her attention on placing his items in the sustainable cloth bag with the logo of her shop on it. Her right hand gripped the bag tightly and her brow was furrowed in determination. 

He nodded in response although she couldn’t see it. “That’s cool…pretty cool. I get the healing thing ‘cause I’m a nurse and that’s mainly why I wanted to be one.” 

Her grip relaxed and she glanced up once, those blue, blue eyes slightly softened from their earlier rigidity. He gulped again at her attention, wondering why a simple glance was something he was really beginning to enjoy and even crave. It was probably just because she was fascinating. It wasn’t every day one meets a real life witch, after all. 

The last item disappeared into the bag and he felt disappointment tug at his heart. He truly wanted to keep the conversation going. 

Gilbert let his mouth run a little bit more because he clearly had no self-preservation skills, nor self-control, nor ability to learn from his mistakes. His gaze centered on the blazing orange and bronze braids he was dying to unravel and run his hands through. His mouth ran dry, for some reason, and all he had time to think before a storm of nonsense tumbled out of his mouth was, _Oh god, why is she so pretty?_

“Maybe you can cure me of your lack of attention?” 

Then his hand was reaching out and his brain finally registered what it had already decided to do and it screamed at him to STOP. NOT CUTE. SERIOUSLY NOT CUTE. NOT OKAY. _Don’t offend the witch-_

His warnings came too late as he slipped one of her smooth, copper, amber, flame-hued braids into his hand, admiring for just one second its texture and weight and color, before shifting his eyes to her mesmerizing blue sparklers and _tugging_. 

The small amusement it gave him was crushed by the overwhelming fear a moment later as he saw offense build up in her face (which was tilted to the side, courtesy of Gilbert’s yanking on her braid) like millions of gallons of water behind a crumbling, cracking dam. He swore he could see it actually _bubbling_ beneath her porcelain skin (very smooth, I mean it was just unfair how her freckles were sprinkled like delectable cinnamon and her cheeks were tinted with a natural red blush that was deepening, and deepening and HOLY SHIT SHE WAS TURNING RED FROM RAGE). Anger emerged from her trembling figure like a sped up video of a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. Her voice thundered out a second later, filling the shop with its volume and ferocity. 

“I’M NOT CURING YOU OF ANYTHING!” 

A pain blossomed on his cheek and he realized, all of a sudden, he was looking towards the left, plants in their dark pots, a judgmental cat, and pale purple walls filling his vision. Bewilderment crowded his brain because he hadn’t been looking towards the left before and…. _wow his cheek and the side of his head ached_ … His hand shot up to cup the burning, aching sensation and he slowly swiveled his head back to the front, to Anne’s fuming figure. She had a rather thick book in her right hand and was panting heavily, while looking at his burning cheek with a mixture of horror, embarrassment, and righteousness. Gilbert’s brain finally connected the very obvious dots. 

Did she just smack him with a book….? 

Yep. She did. Gilbert was just physically assaulted by this small, red headed woman because he had flirted with her (at an inappropriate time) and tugged on her braid. 

Instead of graciously accepting the rebuff and deserved treatment, Gilbert’s lack of self control kicked in again and he followed up, by pointing at the witch’s book, with, “You just did.” 

The book’s title (was Gilbert imagining the mark of his cheek smudged across its glossy surface? Probably, because that’s impossible, his cheek wasn’t that greasy. She wasn’t _that_ strong…Well, she was a witch…) ironically- as if this situation needed more ridiculousness- was _The Witch’s Ultimate Plant-Based Cure for Headaches_.

The right side of Gilbert’s head throbbed at the title. 

His heart throbbed in response to the throbbing of his head, since he knew it had been caused by a fiery goddess. More importantly, it throbbed at her scent- faintly licorice, lavender, and lemongrass, lingering in the air between them. 

Ugh. Only Gilbert would get smacked by a woman and fall in love with her in the same moment.


	3. "I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahaha, not abandoned. that's great. 
> 
> Am i sorry this update is so late? Entirely. Is Cole iconic? Hell yeah. They both have sort of out-of-body experiences? You bet. What does this mean? No one knows. 
> 
> Hotel? Trivago.

Bash was from Trinidad, so his accent exaggerated things differently to Gilbert’s Canadian, English-speaking ears. He had grown used to it, obviously, having lived with the man for multiple years, but sometimes when Bash targeted Gilbert with his mocking (which was all the time), the Trinidadian accent stretched words in strange places and bounced around the room with more fervor and hilarity than a Canadian accent would.

The point is that his accent had a sing-song quality to it, which made it seem like his insults and mocking of Gilbert were a song, a musical of Gilbert’s private embarrassment. 

"She smacked you, Blythe?!” Bash was gasping for breath after laughing so hard he fell out of his chair at the dining table. One hand pounded the table while he picked himself up, then doubled over again with outrageous laughter. Gilbert sat across from him, not amused.

“Yeah. It’s hilarious, I get it. But I kinda deserved it.” Gilbert had enough shame in him about the incident to look sheepish, lowering his eyes so they stared at the wood grain patterns in the table.

Bash rapidly shook his head, eyes wide and watery from the strain of his laughter.

“No, no, you didn’t ‘kinda’ deserve it. You definitely deserved it! Who does that? Who pulls a woman’s hair? What, are you in elementary school tryin’ to get a girl’s attention?!” More laughter bounced out of him, his arm coming to hold his stomach. “I know you were popular in high school, Blythe, but when it comes to approaching women you’re about as hopeless as I was proposing to Mary!”

He was referencing his proposal to his now wife, which had come about two months after knowing Mary and very late at night with a drunk Bash lying miserable in her bathtub because he thought Mary didn’t like him. He had popped the question with tears staining his face and alcohol choking his breath, but for some reason (Gilbert still cannot believe a brilliant woman like Mary accepted that disaster of a proposal and even less that she accepted this disaster of a man known as his brother) Mary was touched and said yes. Bash cringes thinking about it to this day.

The woman in question had been listening from her spot on the couch, simultaneously watching Delphine playing in the living room and the cooking competition that was on TV. Mary had her neck craned so she could look at Gilbert’s face and she sent him a sympathetic smile, but he noticed the mirth dancing in her eyes, eerily similar to her husband’s.

Gilbert rolled his eyes. “Well, I got the stuff you needed, anyway. Hopefully this works for your mom.”

“And if it don’t, maybe you can pay this Anne with an ‘e’ another visit, eh?” Bash wiggled his eyebrows, nudging one of Gilbert’s arms.

“Leave the boy alone, Bash. I think he knows what he did was wrong and is _thoroughly_ embarrassed about it.” Mary, his savior as always, reined in her husband as she stretched and stood up. She glanced once more at Delphine playing with her dolls, wrapped her salmon pink sweater tighter around herself, then made her way into the dining room. She patted Gilbert’s shoulder as she passed.

“Oh c’mon! You torture me with how terrible my proposal was all the time! How come I can’t tease him a little more?”

“End it, please, so you can help me set the table for dinner. Let him go.” Mary opened one of the cabinets, removed a stack of blue plates, then turned around to offer them to her husband. The mirth from earlier still danced in her cocoa-colored eyes, like embers from a campfire sparking playfully. She winked at Bash. “For now."

Gilbert shook his head, realizing no one was on his side at the moment. He had picked up a sandwich in town earlier, after scampering out of Anne’s shop like the devil was on his heels, so thankfully he had an excuse not to stick around for dinner. Retreat was the best option, so he escaped the room while the two started a conversation amid gathering silverware and setting the table.

He made it to his room safely. He flicked on a lamp after standing in the quiet darkness for a few moments, breathing out tiredly after the events of the day.

The memory of Anne’s furious burning eyes came back to him and he whined; just the image made him hide his face in his hands.

_That was a really good first impression. 10/10. Good job, Gilbert._

He ran his hand over one of the herb bundles he had snatched from the bag. Bash had ordered everyone to hang one or two above their bed, so his mom didn’t scold him for leaving anyone in their family unprotected.

A witch. Huh. _Queen of the Fairies_ , Gilbert mused.

Maybe that meant he wasn’t Puck. He knew he wasn’t anymore (he knew), but there were days he felt like he was playing his part in a play. Faking confidence, performing for everybody’s eyes, and speaking even though his own words barely made sense to him.

_Maybe he’d make a good Oberon, King of the Fairies._

Gilbert snorted, then approached his bed to hang the herbs on his bedpost. The bundle had sprigs of rosemary, some chamomile, a lot of pennyroyal- thin stems with blooms of purple fluff every couple inches, like a stepping ladder, sage, and bits of a yellow plant called yarrow. The bundle was tied with relatively thick twine, so Gilbert just looped the long end of the twine, which was hanging loose from the bundle, around his left bedpost, at the head.

That night, his brain replayed Anne’s words about how some collections of herbs protected, warded off evil spirits and witches, improved memory, and caused good dreams. Her babbling brook voice was the last thing he was aware of before his awareness shut down and his mind drifted.

Not his father, or the days he spent cruising around the world with Bash. No, not this time.

His brain conjured up a dreamscape with a forest and him with large, pointy ears, looking about as a golden glow filtered through the circle of trees around him. Bash, Mary, and Delphine were there, sleeping peacefully. Their heads were resting on luscious green moss that grew all around. Mary and Delphine were dressed in elegant, medieval style dresses and Delphine had a beautiful flower crown with white, yellow, blue, and purple buds decorating her curly hair. Bash also had on a simple, medieval-looking outfit. All of them were in black and white, save for Delly’s flower crown.

Gilbert was confused. He didn’t know how he got here, but knew he had an important purpose for being there. He needed to do something…

The sunlight shot straight into his eye, blinding him and making him hastily throw a hand up to block it. He felt the sunlight flood through him, blessing every inch of his body and lifting up his soul. It was like the comforting slide of hot cocoa or steaming green tea down one’s throat, but everywhere at once, dripping into his veins. He felt wholly content for the first time in a while. At the same time, he was aware that his body was in bed, lying horizontal. He knew instinctively that he was on his side, facing the shadowy corner of his room. He could see into two different planes of reality that were playing at the same time- same speed, same amount of detail.

Both felt equally real.

He stood alert in the center of the ring of trees. His family was sleeping, just as secure and happy as he was.

The only peculiar thing was that he was awake. Why was he awake, aware of this arresting paradise, while the others slept on, oblivious? Gilbert needed to know.

Bash’s voice proclaiming, _“All those thoughts knockin’ around your noggin-”_ echoed around the forest.

All of his thoughts colliding against each other in his head. Why was he awake?

But he wasn’t, he was sleeping…. He was awake in the dream, his family was sound asleep, but he…

A chorus of birds tweeted, their high-pitched chirps starting off as one before two, three, seven more birds joined in to make a choir. The cacophony was dazzling, bewildering. _Eeps_ and falling whistles surrounded him, pouring from the tops of the towering trees. 

_“All those thoughts-”_

_“You think too much, eh, Blythe-”_

Seriously, why was he awake? Could they not hear the deafening birds? How could they sleep through this? 

_“Knockin’ around your noggin-”_

The sun started to burn, but not in an unpleasant way. The steady warmth was dialled up to a more intense, prickling heat, like arriving mere inches in front of a roaring fire after walking miles on a summer night to reach it. It was like seeing far away fireworks- red, yellow, white explosions shooting off in the sky, an ear-splitting boom and global static following after, then letting his hand dangle over a torch’s dancing, red-hot flame.

It was nice. It was…thrilling. He burned and burned, and stood still in the sun’s raging warmth. His breath seemed to flow easier, so he drank the cloying oxygen in, then exhaled from the fire of his own lungs. In, out. It burned.

The birds had stopped, but Gilbert hardly noticed. The forest was silent. His family rested amongst the moss and dirt, still and tranquil in a ring around him

_“What you daydreaming about, Blythe?”_

A flash of red hair, spider silk the color of the sun as it melts into the horizon, licking the clouds and creatures of the earth in a blaze, of fire eating up trees, wood beams, and conjuring all things as silhouettes in a radiant light, of dewy red and orange leaves crying on a crisp autumn day, and blushing seaweed dancing in the ocean’s dark currents, appeared in the corner of his eye.

His heart sped up. He turned and the sun burned straight through him, revealing a red haired woman crowned in bark, tattooed with a familiar red soil. She wore a gown of pure cloud, white cotton candy and pearly lace blending into alabaster skin that was peppered with tiny fairies’ kisses, like brown freckles.

The Queen of the Fairies.

It burned.

_“And all those thoughts knockin’ around your noggin are gonna go- phewww!”_

  
  


  
  


Cole calmly plucked an orange colored pencil from his tray and Anne wanted to smack him, too.

That was a lie. She would never do that to Cole. He was one of the very few people on this earth that truly understood Anne and accepted her. He was a helpful, kind soul that frequently calmed her down when she got into her moods, but could be firm and challenging if she got too carried away. Sassy, but gentle.

She would never smack him....Probably.

It was best to end this physical assault habit she was beginning to form. But oh, she was mad.

Contrary to the horrible night she had yesterday, the morning after the “Gilbert Blythe” incident shone bright and peaceful. The sun emerged and danced among the smatterings of clouds in the sky like a baby robin hatching out of its blue prison. Cole had his art supplies scattered over the dark wood of the table they occupied in their favorite cafe (currently, he was adding detail to a remarkably realized lion, its jaws open and snarling into the sky). Anne’s black painted nails were pressed so hard into her mug as she recounted her night that Cole feared her witchy powers and strong grip would cause it to explode.

That man…. _Gilbert Blythe._ Anne had never been so insulted (not necessarily true but she was angry, so whatever). First, he complained about magic not being real and her witchcraft being a sham (not the first person to do so but maybe she had been expecting different because of the soil and bark that had caused such an out-of-body experience right before he walked in. She was so _sure_ he was bound to mean something to her because of the powerful sensations she had gotten from her samples of nature but then he….). Then he insulted her business, its validity (“yOU mUsT nOt gEt veRY mAnY cUStOmERS,” she mocked out loud to Cole). Then, then…

 _Was that supposed to further insult her? A provocation? Flirting?_ What man flirted by tugging on a woman’s braid and saying something ridiculous like he had? He had obviously meant to demean her, a not so rare thing for a man to do in her experience with them (Anne slammed her mug of green tea down on the unsuspecting table, startling Cole who had just bitten into his croissant. Crumbs tumbled out of his mouth and he winced at her biting-as-a-whip voice. “Cole, as a man, could you explain to me why so many of your gender feel as if they can do whatever they want without facing consequences simply because of what dangles between their legs?! As it stands, I am _baffled_ by the _ignorance_ and _barbarity_ that flows unbidden from-” Cole interrupted by placing a comforting hand on Anne’s balled up fist. He shrugged helplessly. “I’m as confused as you are, Anne, I really am. I am one myself and am dating one but I have no clue what goes on in men’s minds. I just-”)

Needless to say, tensions were running high.

“And I know you said I should work on my temper, Cole, but my body was moving before I knew what was going on! I’m sure I looked just as surprised as him, honestly.”

Anne shook her head, envisioning Gilbert Blythe’s head snapping to the side suddenly and her own gaze falling to the book she had barely realized was in her hand at the time.

“Well, you do need to work on not getting so caught up in the moment. I love you dearly for it, it’s one of my favorite things about you, but when it comes to bad stuff it’s like you said: you didn’t even know what you were doing ‘till you had done it. But I think he deserved it. That was a real creep thing to do, pulling your hair. You’re my only ginger friend, Anne. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if you suddenly lost all those glorious orange locks.” A shit-eating grin spread across Cole’s face as he said those last words, blonde eyebrows rising as he waited for Anne to get flustered and yell at him.

She merely rolled her eyes. “How kind of you. It’s good to know you have my best interests at heart.”

He locked eyes with her across the table, recognizing she was enacting some self control and not giving into provocation. He clapped happily close to his chest, eyes sparkling with humor, then picked up his glass of iced coffee and touched it to Anne’s mug.

“Well done, young grasshopper. You will become a master yet.”

He nearly choked as Anne swatted his arm, jolting it and forcing more coffee than he expected down his throat.

“Watch it, Mackenzie.” Her own blue dome eyes had a cheerful gleam.

After a few more minutes of banter and making each other nearly choke on their drinks, Cole brought up a point that Anne had hoped he wouldn’t have noticed.

“But there’s something you’re missing, Anne.” He carelessly brushed some pencil shavings and croissant crumbs off his sketchbook. The lion’s right eye seemed to track his movements before he returned to outlining the ferocious white gleam in the eye. “This Gilbert- ew, seriously, who names their kid ‘Gilbert’ nowadays? - clearly liked you. He wanted your attention. You said he kept staring at you while you were explaining the plant stuff.”

Anne didn’t want to think of Gilbert Blythe. She definitely didn’t want to think of his vexing, arrogant smirk as he leaned in and even less the sharp, electric sensation that had shot through her body when he fingered her braid.

She gulped down another blistering swig of green tea, avoiding Cole’s knowing look at her silence.

Anne ignored the part of her that had been entranced by the man’s singular beauty (dark, soft-looking curls, hazel green eyes, tan skin, and a charming, kind smile. Even if his smirk turned out to be the bane of her existence, she couldn’t deny the attractiveness of his smile and overall face). His appearance had reminded her of a fairy tale hero, straight out of the romance novels and wistful tales she had hungrily consumed as a lonely child in the orphanage. She was sorely disappointed from both his unruly effect on her (his burning gaze made her extremely self-conscious and she never appreciated feeling so) and from his callous remarks. Not to mention the audacity he had to yank her hair like he owned her.

If Anne had decided to go down the evil path all those years ago and become a black magic witch, she could have found a spell to curse him with misfortune (“I’ll drain him dry as hay. Sleep shall neither night nor day hang upon his penthouse lid…” she mused, the quote coming to her from her large love of literature. As amusing as the idea was, there was a bigger part of Anne that felt terrible imagining Gilbert Blythe being unable to sleep. The memory of bulging, dark circles under his eyes, as prominent as a purple bruise, had told her more about his sleeping habits than her bleeding heart cared to know). But she wasn’t that petty and he probably would have suspected his sudden misfortune (or grievous lack of sleep) was due to the witch he had offended.

She wouldn’t be able to get away with it.

“I don’t know. The last man to show interest in me was Roy and he… Well, there were a lot of other problems, but he expected too much of me. And this Gilbert Blythe, even if he was trying to flirt or show his interest, won’t cross paths with me again anytime soon. Not that I’d want him to.” Anne’s voice was laced with bitterness and she brought her mug up again to hide her face from Cole’s judgmental eyes.

As she expected, he didn’t let the subject go that easily.

“Nah-ah-ah, my precious Annie. That just tells me that you have a reciprocal interest in him. You never answered me when I asked if he was good looking, either.” Cole wagged one finger and selected a dark brown pencil.

She was sure he could feel her heated glare. She was *this* close to unearthing the old black magic book she kept in the shop’s basement and finding a curse for one Cole Mackenzie.

“Yes, okay- he was cute. Unfairly attractive, but as you well know, Cole Mackenzie, the boys with the cutest faces always end up with the douchiest personalities.”

Cole stopped shading a section of the lion’s mane to return her glare, brown eyes narrowed in displeasure.

“Good try, but all I’m taking from that is that I’m really cute.” He casually resumed coloring. “Also, you’re being a bitch.”

“Well, if I’m being a bitch then you’re-”

“Honey, I _know_ I’m a bitch. I’m the biggest bi-”

“So you’re saying there’s a double standard-”

“Don’t use your social injustice knowledge against me. I’m a gay man therefore I am a minority-”

“Your dick is a minority-”

And on it went, Cole and Anne bickering without malice as the best of bosom friends they were and Anne rejoicing that she successfully diverted the conversation from her perceived interest in Gilbert Blythe. That is, until Cole went to bite into his croissant again about 20 minutes later and realized he had forgotten the initial topic of their conversation.

“Dammit! You did it again! You’re too smart for your own good sometimes! Don’t think you can distract me from this again because you are going to give me a straight answer about your interest in this Gilbert.” He pointed threateningly at her over his glass, the coffee within it watery because the ice melted during their argument.

Her tea finished, Anne just gathered her purse from her chair and stood up. She snatched up the iced coffee she had purchased for her friend and ignored Cole’s protests as she rose.

“Sorry! You know I’d love to continue the conversation, but I’ve got some rituals to complete this afternoon.” She waved goodbye with a smug look. “Text me when you get the chance! See ya!”

“Hey! Who said you could leave? Anne-” Cole was getting some weird looks because of the volume of his yelling, so he cut himself off and just shook his head at Anne’s retreating figure.

When Anne arrived at her bike outside the cafe, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket and pulled it out to see a passive aggressive text from Cole.

 _ **aunt jo’s fav boi**_ : its later and ur no longer my favorite redhead

Anne clicked her teeth and glanced back at the window of the cafe even though she couldn’t see through it because of the glare from the sun, then responded.

_**its anne with an e goddammit**_ : im the only redhead u know

_****__** ** _

She placed her purse in the basket at the front of her bike (decorated with real flowers and an embroidered patch with her name on it) along with the extra iced coffee while she waited for his response.

_****__** ** _

_**aunt jo’s fav boi**_ : Amy Adams begs to differ

 _ **its anne with an e goddammit**_ : whose Amy Adams

 _ **aunt jo's fav boi**_ : YOU DONF JNOW WHO-

 _ **aunt jo’s fav boi**_ : YOUVE NEVER SEEN ENCHANTED?

 _ **aunt jo’s fav boi**_ : AND WHATEVER ELSE SHES BEEN IN??

 _ **aunt jo’s fav boi**_ : omg bye

 _ **aunt jo’s fav boi**_ : blocked and reported

_****_****__**__** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Anne rolled her eyes. The list of people more dramatic than herself was short, with only two names: Cole Mackenzie and Ruby Gillis. She returned her phone to its spot in her purse, then unlocked and wheeled her bike onto the sidewalk. Trees lining the road cast dappled crystal light onto the stretch of sidewalk, pinpricks and drops of holiness peppering her skin as she cruised underneath their protective boughs.

_****_****__**__** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

She was of the opinion that there was truly nothing better than a bike ride through town, surrounded by sunshine and glimpses of nature in potted plants and over growing vines. She felt more at home in a forest or a clearing, but joining the motion of the town as other complex humans unraveled their day produced an unbeatable feeling.

_****_****__**__** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Her shop was closed for the day so Anne fully planned on taking advantage of her free time. Meeting with Cole, then taking a calming bike ride…. The next thing on her activity list was...

_****_****__**__** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

A rectangular sign with _Snug’s Daycare _written in bright, happy blue letters next to a smiling cartoon lion loomed before her as she rolled up to the daycare’s front lawn. A smile of her own reflected the daycare’s logo. She truly loved volunteering here. Her best bosom friend, Diana Barry, had the pleasure of running one of Charlottetown’s only daycares and employed two of her other friends- Ruby Gillis and Tillie Boulter. Since Anne loved volunteering in her community, children, and her best friends, hanging around Snug’s was a fantastic way to spend her time.__

_****_****__**__** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

__After she dismounted and leaned her bike against the side of the building, under the shade of some trees and not too far from Diana’s blue car parked in the driveway, she hurried into the daycare through the front entrance. Vivid, cream-colored walls leapt out at her as soon as she passed the children’s cubby and coat rack, shoes and jackets spilling everywhere. Echoes of laughter and playful screams filtered from the backyard where the kids must be enjoying some time out in the sunshine. Anne navigated her way around building blocks, tables full of coloring books and crayons, and wildly patterned individual mats crowding the floor until she found herself in the staff room. She deposited her purse, put her phone in her back pocket just in case, grabbed a badge with her name on it from the basket in the front of the room, then made her way outside._ _

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

She locked eyes with Diana before even passing through the back door and she witnessed joy diffuse across her friend’s countenance.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Diana’s black eyes danced merrily and she grinned while exclaiming, “Look who's come to visit us! Everyone, look- it’s Miss Anne!”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Before a horde of energetic children could rush her, Anne gave a quick scan of her friend. Diana had her glossy black hair pulled up in a high ponytail, eye makeup around her coal-black eyes flawless, and donned high waisted jeans with a turquoise blouse tucked into the front. Anne read exhaustion in her friend’s drooping shoulders and dragging gait, but Diana Barry, without fail, looked as put together and gorgeous as ever.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Sighing internally, Anne shook the extra cup of coffee she had procured from the cafe while breezing through the back door. Some fifteen kids clamored around Anne, loud and energetic and yelling about the newest thing on their minds. Somehow she managed to wade through the swarm while shiftily handing the coffee off to her poor friend on the edge of collapse. Before she could return, a familiar voice chimed up and she felt a petite hand grip her own.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Delphine Lacroix was about as sweet-tempered as young kids got, with an unnerving cleverness and mischievousness aiding her charming personality. She had her moments, of course, as all kids do- Anne distinctly remembered an incident when she had learned her uncle wouldn’t be able to pick her up from daycare because of his busy schedule and had promptly burst into loud, wracking sobs that left her parents (who were the unfortunate messengers of this disappointing news) helpless to calm her. That was a proper fit; no attention from Anne, Diana, Ruby, Tillie, or her parents, offers of juice and crackers, even a promise of a special visit to her uncle’s workplace had gotten her to stop wailing. Delphine had pounded her little fists on her dad’s back as he carried her to the car and Anne’s heart had broken when her cries could be heard even after the car doors were shut. So, bar those rare and out-of-character temper tantrums, Delphine- or Delly as she preferred to be called- was all happy giggles and bright, stretching smiles. Today, Anne noticed, she had her curly mass of brown hair done up in simple pigtails, fastened by cute blue hair bands with plastic butterfly baubles attached. They sprang from side to side as she energetically bounced around Anne. Some residue from something she ate- probably the popsicles the kids were treated to occasionally before recess, stained the corner of her little mouth.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“How is fair and kind Princess Delphine this glamorous afternoon?”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

(Yeah, Anne hammed up her already wide vocabulary and dramatic tendencies in front of the kids. So what? Life was about the small pleasures, after all.)

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Delphine’s eyes sparkled when Anne turned all her attention to her and she hopped a little in excitement. Her voice squeaked out from behind purple-stained lips (definitely a grape popsicle).

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“Good! I’m fantastic, Miss Anne!”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Anne gave an impressed gasp at the big word, praising Delphine for taking her advice and learning all the big words she could for the next time she saw her.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“Fantastic?! I agree, Princess Delphine, that it is indeed a superb day and feeling fantastic does suit it!” Delphine giggled at the funny sounding sentence. “How do you plan to spend this fantastic day?”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

More giggles petered out before a small, soft hand slipped into Anne’s own. The brown of Delphine’s eyes was as radiant as a smooth, weathered stone beneath glistening waters. Before Delphine replied, she was already tugging Anne in the direction of a patch of flowers that grew on the sides of the daycare’s backyard.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“The flowers! I want- those pretty flower things you make, Miss Anne! Those- those-“ She didn’t stop walking but gestured to her head by circling it with her finger.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“Flower crowns? You want me to show you how to make flower crowns?”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Delphine nodded emphatically, happy that she got her point across effectively. They came to a stop before the verdant patch, small flowers like buttercups and dandelions growing sparsely amidst the wild, untrimmed grass.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“I would love to, princess, but you know what to do when you want something from someone. You don’t just demand it. That’s not nice.”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Delphine looked up a bit shamefully. She bit her lip. “Sorry, Miss Anne. Could you please make a flower crown for me?”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Anne smiled an indulgent smile, feeling a rush of fondness for the good and kind-hearted child before her.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“But of course, princess. How about I teach you how to make one yourself so you can have one whenever you like and can give them to your friends. Maybe you can make one for your mom and dad.”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Delphine agreed heartily and soon the two were at work. Anne was patient and encouraging as she picked out flowers for the two to use, instructed Delphine on how to pick out her own, then got into the process of weaving the simple crown. Some ten minutes in, as Anne made a joke about how red flowers would clash horribly with her hair, Delphine suddenly piped up with a most unexpected statement.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“My Uncle Gilby said he met someone with your hair, Miss Anne. Daddy was teasing him about it because he had done something really silly to this girl with red hair. Daddy was laughing a lot about it, but Uncle Gilby looked upset.”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

It took quite a few moments for her words to sink in, but when they did, horrible thoughts flooded in after.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

_Her Uncle Gilby met a girl- woman -with red hair? He did something silly? Uncle Gilby?_

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Anne glanced down at the little girl’s untroubled expression- all serenity as she brushed her fingers through grass and long flower stems, searching for the best ones to add to her crown.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

_Uncle….Gilby?_ _The world couldn’t be that small, could it? There was no way…_

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Then Anne remembered Gilbert Blythe’s confident explanation of how he didn’t believe in magic himself, but had a brother whose mother was visiting the family and was really superstitious. His brother had been worried she would freak out about Gilbert, his brother, his brother's wife, and their daughter being unprotected.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“Delphine…” Anne’s voice cracked as she pronounced the girl’s full name. She swallowed back the shock and whatever force was pressing down on her now (she refused to believe it was some kind of influence of Gilbert Blythe’s. She had been disappointed and hurt by his insulting behavior last night and didn’t think they would ever meet again, so why was she anticipating and dreading the possibility that he…). “Delphine, do you know your uncle’s full name? You called him Uncle Gilby?”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Delphine looked up from her intense concentration on knitting one of the flower’s stems to another. Her brows were furrowed in determination even as her eyes and ears focused in on what Anne was saying.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“Oh, yeah. My Uncle Gilby- Gil-Bert. That’s his full name. Gil-“ She obviously had some trouble dictating the name smoothly. “-Bert. Uncle Gilby. That’s what I said!”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Anne shook her head but didn’t pay much attention to what she was disagreeing to. Her core soundly rocked and her mind whirling in confusion and agitation and immeasurable other emotions, Anne didn’t have full control of her faculties to express much of anything at the moment.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

_Gilbert? Seriously, what are the odds?! But how could sweet, kind Delphine be the niece of that insulting, ignorant man? Is this some kind of cosmic prank?_

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Anne certainly didn’t appreciate the rom-com feeling her life had taken on all of a sudden.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

A faint tug on the bottom of her shirt brought her attention back to the present, where Delphine had her marble eyes locked on Anne’s dazed expression. She took a deep breath, shook thoughts of Gilbert Blythe and his increasingly frequent presence in her life from her mind, and forced a smile as she asked what Delphine wanted.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“You’re a witch too, right? Uncle Gilby said he met a witch last night. The woman with red hair-“

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Anne almost gasped out loud. So it was.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“I-I see.” She cut off Delphine because she already knew the story and didn’t really want to hear what Gilbert had gossiped to his family about the witch he had met.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

After this revelation, Anne’s day seemed to progress much faster than usual. She barely noticed all the activities she participated in or the rambling, excited jabber from all the kids. Diana noticed that it took more than one call of her name to get her attention and tried to pry the reason out of her. She had texted the group chat what had happened last night, then had the opportunity to explain more when she met Cole, but Diana didn’t know the details. She couldn’t possibly explain anything right now, least of all her confusion at this turn of events. She could ask questions, however.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“Diana,” her voice carried over the beading table, the arts and crafts room unusually quiet now that all the kids were tired out from their exercise. Diana looked up from the light blue beads she was helping thread onto a neon yellow band. “Has Delly’s uncle ever picked her up? She mentioned something about him today, and I…I think I might know him.”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Diana took a half-second to think, then nodded, black locks swaying gently with the motion.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“Yeah, I believe so.” Then an abashed expression, mouth turned up in remembered amusement, sprang up. “I was actually caught off guard the first time he showed up to get her. Bash, y’know Delly’s dad, had said that he was, and I quote, “a skinny white boy with scrubs on” but I wouldn’t let them go off together until we FaceTimed Bash. He was nice and understanding about the whole thing."

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Anne nodded along, feeling the final swirl of dread flood her body.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Then Diana winked at her, not-so-discreetly. A mischievous light danced over her entire countenance.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“He was kinda cute, too. And he was so sweet to her, joking around, promising to bake with her and help her spell. Totally adorable.”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Bile simmered at the back of her throat. She didn’t even deign that with a response, which her best friend noticed instantly.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

“Why…? You know him?”

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

Anne’s mouth tightened at the question, a familiar anger rising unbidden in her bloodstream. She wrestled it back down to properly answer her friend.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

"Kinda. We met once.” The tightness in her tone made it obvious she didn’t want to talk about it more. Diana eyed her for a couple more silent seconds, then nodded hesitantly before returning to her work. No doubt she’d want to extract the whole story later but right now Anne was exhausted.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

She couldn’t help a foreboding feeling that Gilbert Blythe had placed some kind of curse on her life.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _

The irony made her head spin.

_****_****__**_____ _ ** _ _ ** ** _ ** ** _


End file.
